The Case of the Deceased Pugilist
by AmatorLinguae
Summary: A file is stolen from 221B, but Watson's greater worry is Holmes. Who is Clotilde Murray, and what is her connection with a dead acquaintance of Holmes' boxing days? Rated T for drug use and probable violence.
1. Chapter I: Points of Weakness

**Chapter I: Points of Weakness**

"I can' t do that!"

"You must, James." The lady's voice was smooth and pleasant, but the man blanched.

"No."

A laugh came from behind her veil. Sweat stood out on the man's face. "I won't, I tell you! He's a good 'un, he is. Doesn't charge poor folk and always deals with me proper, like a gentleman."

"You poisoned that man in Essex, Usher. Will he still treat you proper when you're on trial – or hanged?" The voice was not so pleasant now.

Silence. Then, "You won't kill him?"

"All I need is a few hours," came the soothing reply. "He won't be harmed, just taken out of commission, as it were."

"All right." His voice was so low she could barely hear him.

"Let me see you prepare it." She was taking no chances.

The man straightened for an instant, and glared with fervent hate. Then he turned to his chemicals.

"Excellent, Usher." Then with a touch of malice she added, "I'm sure Mr. Holmes will appreciate the quality of his merchandise."

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A long, lean figure plodded up seventeen endless steps, wearily pushed open the door, and crossed the sitting room to slump into his chair. Sherlock Holmes had lost a case.

The great mind proceeded to think itself into a mood that was not merely black, but deepest ebony. Holmes tortured his Stradivarius till it shrieked like a damned soul; ignored Mrs. Hudson when she complained; let the violin fall to the floor after forty mortal minutes, and stared at nothing.

His client was dead. Killed by a sailor with no earthly reason to bear him ill will – and the seaman had the poor courtesy to die himself not a day later. Garrotted in an opium den off the docks in the East End of London… in itself not an unusual fate for men of his type, but damned inconvenient. He had checked, and it seemed indisputable – William Houston had swaggered in boasting that he had just "done a job on some rich toff," and promptly handed over half his profits to sink himself into a drugged haze. Someone had seen an easy mark, and there it was. His first failure in months.

Holmes' eyes strayed to the small glass bottle on his desk, glinting temptingly. He had bought the morphine just a few hours ago, ignoring the voice of his conscience – which bore a startling resemblance to Watson's. Now he ignored the sardonic tone of his own thoughts, which pointed out that he and that dead sailor were not, really, so very different.

The detective rose, spurred to the effort by the thought of the sweet forgetfulness waiting for him. With long, active fingers he prepared the syringe, readied his arm, and made the drug part of the blood rushing through his veins. He sighed, and barely had time to reach the couch before it took effect. _It shouldn't be so strong in such a small dose…_ But that worry soon floated away. His eyelids fluttered closed, and he would have smiled, had he possessed the energy…

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_A/N: First story ever! Sorry it's so short - more will be forthcoming! Please tell me if I've made any mistakes; I don't know much about drugs. :) __All reviews welcome – including negative ones._


	2. Chapter II: A Visitor

**Chapter II: A Visitor**

_A/N: Thanks for all the lovely reviews! And thank you for your information, Cat and Kadigan. For the drugs I went by the Jane Toppan case – she was a nurse around the turn of the century who poisoned her patients by mixing atropine with their morphine, then studied the effects. However, after several people commented on the drugs used in the fic, I did a little more research and realized that she injected first the morphine, then the atropine, and that the latter _disguised_ the morphine's effect. This was contrary to my book source, which mentioned that the atropine "enhanced the effects" of the morphine, but the later information appears to be correct. So, I'll be looking for something that _does_ intensify the effects of morphine when added as I described in the story, and hopefully edit the first chapter. Sorry about that!  
_

A knock sounded on the door. "Mr. Holmes?" The soft voice trembled a little. "May – may I come in?"

No answer.

The handle turned, and the door began to open. "Mr. Holmes, I'm in such trouble, I don't know what to – ah." Gratified that she would not have to play the part of fair maiden in distress, she closed the door softly behind her. She had not expected him to have recourse to the drug so soon, but she was glad that she had come on the chance of it.

Her eyes flickered around the room, paused to take in the limp form of the great detective, then settled on the papers lying on the floor to one side of the fireplace. What unbelievably good luck – there would be no need to puzzle out where he kept his old case files. There were quite a number of them… and probably in no kind of order, from what she knew of the man's tidying habits.

She crossed the room and knelt to examine them, the rich fabric of her skirt pooling around her. They _were_ in order – or mostly in order. Remarkable. She sensed the doctor's hand in this. He must have been interrupted in the middle of organizing them, for while the majority were sorted into piles by year and then alphabetized (a neat hand had written names of various clients at the top of each), the rest were still strewn over the floor in disarray. She would have to begin with the properly organized ones and hope for the best.

_1879_… Correct year, but so many files! She had not known the detective had handled so many before the advent of his biographer. Martinson – no, wrong section altogether – Pendergast – no – Samuelson, Sanders, Screwleather – _Screwleather? Honestly_ – ah. She removed the file and inspected it carefully. A smile flashed across her face.

Rising, she turned to go, then looked again at the insensible detective. His grey eyes were closed now, and his face relaxed. Quite handsome, really, now that he had lost that hunting hound's intensity. One arm hung limply over the edge of the couch, and on impulse she crossed the room and lifted the thin wrist. She paused for a few moments as the artery pulsed under her thumb, then gave a low chuckle and dropped the limb. He would live – probably. Let him deduce what he would. An intelligent opponent would be a rare challenge.

Still smiling, she passed out of the room and down the stairs. The housekeeper was buying her groceries for the week, as she did every Wednesday, but she would return soon, and it would not do to be caught. She left by the back door.

Later that day, a middle-aged doctor, late of Her Majesty's army and still possessed of a military carriage, shoved open the door and hastily ducked in, wringing wet from the rain sheeting down outside. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I know I shouldn't have been walking in this weather, but there were no cabs… my dear lady, I _am_ a doctor, I very much doubt I shall catch my death of cold… no, I haven't eaten… why yes, tea in a quarter of an hour would be most pleasant, thank you."

Weariness marked his friendly face, but a hint of a smile showed as he watched the solicitous landlady disappear into her kitchen. He started up the steps, his limp just barely visible. By the time he reached the top, some of the tired lines had been smoothed away in anticipation of a warm fire and a long talk with his friend. "I'm sorry I'm late, Holmes, I've had the most trying day… Holmes?" The sound of a medical bag falling to the floor and running footsteps.

"Holmes!"

_A/N: It's another short one! Oh, well. I appear to be a slow writer. I forgot to add a disclaimer in the last chapter – I own nothing in the Sherlock Holmes universe, just my own original characters. They should be pretty obvious. :)__ All reviews welcome!_


	3. Chapter III: Developments

**Chapter III: Developments**

_A/N: Sorry for the long wait! But finals are OVER, and with luck I will update more frequently – though I am a fairly sporadic and labored writer, unfortunately. Hope I (finally) got the medical details right! :-) Thanks for all the information! By the way, Cat, you are starting to remind me of someone I know. Does "St. Vincent's" mean anything to you? (Don't feel like you have to answer - this is just my curiosity talking.) :D_

Sherlock Holmes awoke to the smell of strong tobacco. Ordinarily this would not have been sufficiently unusual to justify a return to consciousness, but as on this occasion it was mixed with the distinctive smell of a hospital, the detective's keen senses insisted on rousing him – rather against his will, as the bed was comfortable and the blankets soft. _Makes no sense at all, hospitals don't allow smoking – I should know… _Wait. His last memory was of sinking onto the Baker Street couch, with a fresh dose of morphine in his bloodstream. Where had the hospital come into this?

With an effort, he thought, entirely disproportionate to the result gained, he opened his eyes. This at first was no great aid in viewing his surroundings, as the room was dark and his vision blurry. After several blinks, things began to clear up. The first object he saw with any accuracy was Watson's rather rumpled waistcoat – the brown one with the button that wanted mending. It rose and fell softly in the even rhythms of sleep. _He's been straining himself recently – that button will fall off before the day is out._ A few seconds later he realized that the smell of tobacco was emanating from his friend. _Not been working then, or not much. Unusual for him to consume so much in the vicinity of a hospital even so – must be worried about something, likely a patient. But not _his_ patient, or he would not have been smoking, or sleeping for that matter. A friend then, tended by another doctor – now who…_

Holmes fought the urge to smack himself. _He _was the friend. And the patient of another doctor. Why? What was wrong with him that Watson could not cure? If it was contagious, he would see that stubborn fool out of the room come hell or high water. Well. If a strange doctor with mental powers likely not much above the average could make a diagnosis, surely the world's only private consulting detective could as well. He began a rapid self-analysis. He felt weak and drowsy, with a general feeling of malaise. A faint taste of bile told him that he had been ill recently. Then there was Watson's non-medical presence, and the fact that the last thing he could remember was the drug flooding through him.

A morphine overdose. How unforgivably stupid of him. _But I know I had the right amount. I – _

In his agitation he had disturbed Watson, who jerked awake with a shudder. His brown eyes had a look in them that Holmes had seldom seen. "Holmes!" It was a quiet exclamation, the kind a brave man gives who has seen something unspeakable.

"Yes, Watson."

His friend gave a surprised start, and looked at him for the first time. "Holmes!" The last time he'd heard that tone out of Watson, he had just taken off an old bookseller's disguise.

"Yes, Watson." He kept his tone perfectly normal.

Watson sighed and leaned back against his chair. "Holmes."

"My dear Watson, I am not likely to forget my own name." The sardonic tone had the desired effect – Watson gave a shaky chuckle, and the fear faded from his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Holmes. Heavens above, it's good to see you yourself again!" His face shone, and Holmes found himself gladdened, too, if only a little. "I really thought we should have lost you."

"So I see. In fact, in your anxiety I perceive that you have smoked fully half a pack of cigarettes."

The wonder on Watson's face never ceased to remind Holmes of a small child shown a magic trick. "Why, so I have. But how the devil did you know that?"

"My dear Watson, when I see you place a newly filled cigarette case in your pocket on Wednesday morning, and then observe the same case over on that table open and half-emptied, it is no great feat to deduce that you have been smoking rather more rapidly than usual. Add to that the distinctive aroma that still hangs about you, and there can be no doubt of it."

The lines on Watson's face grew suddenly deeper. "I'm sorry, Holmes, I went outside and smoked. I never dreamed it would bother you – "

"It doesn't, my dear fellow. It is merely a point of interest."

A spark of anger lit the doctor's face. "Holmes, I did not intend to discuss my smoking habits with you."

"No, I daresay you didn't." _Here it comes…_

"You are obviously recovered enough to converse, so I shall speak my mind, as I should have done long ago. Holmes, you have nearly killed yourself with that vile drug."

"Watson, I – "

"Let me finish! It could have been the death of you. For the past two days – yes, two, don't look so surprised – you've been unconscious. I even called in a specialist, Dr. Vincent Harding, though he could do little more than prescribe the usual remedies. Holmes – " his friend's face grew sterner than Holmes would have credited – "the morphine bottle is gone. If it ever returns, _I_ shall go. I shall not stand by and witness your slow suicide. Is that clear?"

Holmes gave a stiff nod. At this juncture he felt it dangerous to do anything else – though he noted that Watson's ultimatum only mentioned the morphine. He waited until his friend's features had somewhat relaxed, then ventured to remark, "You do realize that I only injected my usual amount – which is rather modest, as you remember."

The thunderclouds reappeared. "Holmes, your symptoms were of morphine overdose, which constitutes no modest amount. I had not thought you would stoop to – "

"Watson, kindly listen to me before your no doubt righteous wrath makes me say something I shall regret." He paused, and reflected that he was not often in the position of having to justify himself. "I know as well as you do what levels of the drug are dangerous, and I am not such a fool as to try my body's limits – unnecessarily, at least," he added at Watson's disbelieving snort. "I give you my word, I did not administer an overdose."

He could see the struggle in Watson's face, and briefly marveled yet again at the transparency of his thoughts – the man might as well be made of glass! He watched the silent debate intently, and when Watson finally spoke Holmes already knew what he would say. "Very well, Holmes – I take you at your word. Have you any explanation for the stupefied state in which I found you?"

Without so much as blinking at the question, Holmes half-closed his eyes and rolled onto his back so that he was speaking to the ceiling. With his hands folded symmetrically on his chest and his thin, pale face, he looked not unlike a corpse. "Let us reason it out step by step. I made no error in the dosage, of that I am sure. Therefore the problem must lie in the drug itself."

"It certainly does."

"Either the concentration or the composition must have been changed," Holmes continued without acknowledging the comment. "I suspect the former, since it is simpler, but in either case the conclusion is the same."

"Holmes, surely you can't mean that some fiend entered the flat and – "

"No, that is of course impossible. I purchased it that very day, and while I did leave our rooms briefly, I would surely have noticed any indication of an intruder upon my return. Now, Watson, having ruled out so much, what is left?"

"There seems no opportunity at all! You maintain that no one could have entered the rooms during your absence, and aside from that you've had it in sight ever since the chemist handed it to you. How – "

"Exactly, Watson," Holmes interrupted. "The chemist. In all likelihood he increased the concentration of the morphine."

"But why?"

"I am afraid I cannot say, though I flatter myself that he has no cause to bear a grudge against me. Therefore, I suspect some form of coercion, possibly blackmail. Watson, would you kindly fetch the main newspapers?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"My dear fellow, have more faith in your auditory powers. I wish to know any developments in this great city of late – they may possibly shed some light on this, though it is unlikely. In any case they will at least relieve the boredom of recuperation."

"I am pleased you find my company so stimulating, Holmes," he said rather bitterly as he rose. He was out of the room before the detective could formulate a reply.

The newspapers proved barren, with the notable exception of a brief story on the fourth page of the _Times_, which related the discovery of a body in the Thames the evening before. The man, identified as a Mr. James Usher, had no visible wounds, and appeared to have drowned. "Though accident is possible," the reporter conceded, "it is conjectured that Mr. Usher's death is suicide, as he had no known enemies and is reported to have appeared despondent for several days preceding his unfortunate demise. The rather meagre state of his finances may also have some bearing upon the matter. The police are, of course, conducting further investigations."

_I'm not entirely pleased with this chapter – can't quite put my finger on why. I shall edit the other two chapters for medical accuracy! Reviews and medical input welcome, as always._


	4. Chapter IV: Discoveries

**Chapter IV: Discoveries**

Three days. Three endless days in which Sherlock Holmes was denied tobacco, denied almost any intelligent company, and denied cases. In other words, denied nearly everything that made life worth living. His usual recourse in such situations was very definitely unavailable – he had only to mention morphine or cocaine to see a baleful gleam enter Watson's eyes and start a rousing quarrel. In the absence of any other stimulant, he had been doing that rather more often than he ought, resulting in Watson's return to his house in Kensington and his remarkably understanding wife.

A temporary absence, Holmes hoped, though he knew that Mary Watson had tolerated her husband's near-constant attendance at his friend's bedside for nigh on four days, and was not likely to greet another prolonged visit with great enthusiasm. Holmes was beginning to regret driving his friend away. Already the politely kind inquiries of the nurses were taxing his limited patience, and he was slowly growing to hate the attending physician.

The man was competent – no doubt of that with Watson watching over his medical care like that bull-pup he used to own – but he had a most irritating way of smiling tolerantly at complaints, and answering them with the reassurance that qualified medical personnel had deemed this approach best, the patient ought not to take the doctor's role, et cetera ad nauseam. Holmes had taken to sprinkling his speech with foreign phrases, even more than usual. This was partly because he liked watching the looks of incomprehension, and partly because no one would take any notice if he had an overwhelming urge to curse in French.

There was a knock on the door, and Holmes looked up expectantly. "Ah, Mycroft. Do come in." There was no mistaking those ponderous footsteps.

His brother entered the room, decreasing the available space by an impressive amount. His watery grey eyes examined the lean form on the hospital bed, and with a sigh he settled himself into a chair. "I have been to your flat, Sherlock."

"And about time, too."

"As I have told you before – many times, I might add – I dislike being shaken out of my routine." In fact, since the overdose Mycroft had only visited twice: once when his brother's life was nearly despaired of, and once shortly after he had regained consciousness. A rather demanding telegram penned by Holmes and posted by Watson occasioned the second visit. "I further dislike being forced to undertake physical activity" – Mycroft ignored an impolite snort – "and I very much dislike neglecting my duties. The Prime Minister is in a rage about – well, perhaps I should not say anything even to you. And – "

"Really, Mycroft, come to the point!"

"As I was about to say – " Mycroft directed a reproving glare toward his brother, with no perceptible effect – "I have been to your flat, and have discovered several facts which will be new to you." Holmes hid an impatient sigh. "First, assuming that you had no lady visitors the day you became – ill…"

"I did not."

"There was a woman in your rooms."

"Describe her."

"Rather tall, of a medium weight, firm, decisive tread, possessed of long, blonde hair…"

"Blonde?"

Mycroft held up a single strand of hair, and continued. "She went directly to your case files – which were lying on the floor in plain sight, Sherlock – and left without troubling to search elsewhere." He decided not to tell his brother of the strange detour to the couch, where he had found the hair. Very likely she had only been ascertaining whether Sherlock was conscious.

"Therefore, the object of her search was a file belonging to one of the years that Watson was setting in order. I suppose you could not determine which?"

"No. Do you always make the doctor sort your cases for you?"

"He insisted on doing it himself." Specifically, Mrs. Watson had recently infected his friend with the urge to clean. Holmes, who was unaware of this change in mood, had just concluded his own search for a particular case, leaving the rest to miraculously order themselves while strewn over the floor. Watson then strode into the sitting room on a surprise visit, and the ensuing scene was not one of the detective's fonder memories.

Mycroft raised his thick eyebrows. "I see. Well, there was little else of note, though I may say that the prints in the carpet were rather less clear than they might have been."

His younger brother bristled. "Watson can hardly be blamed for obscuring the prints."

"I was not blaming him, Sherlock. I was merely noting a fact." At times he wondered whether the doctor was altogether a good influence on his brother. Sherlock could be abnormally defensive of him. "All in all, rather a waste of time that could have been far better spent elsewhere."

"Per ardua ad astra, frater."1

"Sherlock, that is beginning to grow annoying."

"As I recall, you once told me that Latin was the ideal language in which to wax philosophical."

"Dies irae, dies illa.2 You are not waxing philosophical. You are becoming an irritant to those around you, and I for one am leaving."

"Suit yourself." Holmes rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling as his brother left the room.

_A/N: Longer than usual this time! And a longer wait than usual, too - sorry. I love Sherlock/Mycroft dialogue – I couldn't stop! I shall now attempt to correct all my past medical errors. If you can't say something nice… review anyway. :-) _

1 Per ardua ad astra is a Latin phrase meaning "through adversity to the stars." Frater means brother.

2 Very roughly, "That day of wrath, that dreadful day." The beginning of a Latin hymn referring to the end of the world.


	5. Chapter V: The Game's Afoot

**Chapter V: The Game's Afoot**

_A/N: Lately I've been suffering from writer's block (or at least plot-block), so I apologize for taking so long over this chapter! Thanks again to all my reviewers. Your support means so much to me, and I'm grateful that you've kept reading a story that has yet to fit its title. *blushes* On with the tale!_

Holmes settled into the couch with a comfortable sigh, and took in the familiar walls of the Baker Street sitting room with a small smile. Dr. Vincent Harding had finally seen reason and agreed to send him home, with the assurance that Watson would check on him regularly. After spending so long in a hospital bed, he refused to rest anywhere but the couch or his own chair, much to Watson's annoyance.

He lit his pipe, reveling in the taste of tobacco, and sank back with his eyes unfocused and dreamy. He stayed so for an hour at least, smoking, thinking, brooding. A familiar tread on the stairs shook him back to the present, and he smiled. "My dear Watson, I had hoped for your return, but I hardly expected you so soon. Are we to expect a sudden change in the weather?"

There was an amused snort from just outside the room. "Holmes, I haven't even opened the door yet." Not bothering to knock, Watson entered with a smile on his face. "No, wait, don't tell me." He paused for a moment, eyes narrowed in concentration. "You recognized my footsteps, of course, and... my wound is paining me, so no doubt I was limping slightly. Therefore, since I have not been out long enough to aggravate my leg through work, the weather must have done it."

"And since the day is remarkably fine just now, it cannot be its current state, but one soon to come. Bravo, Watson!"

A smile flickered briefly across his face, and he settled himself in his usual chair by the fireplace. "Has Mrs. Hudson prepared luncheon yet?"

"I inquired upon the subject, and she declared her intention of serving it only when you arrived. She also gave me a rather pointed lecture on 'keeping my strength up', as she puts it, and I rather suspect she wants you here to ensure that I do so."

Watson snorted. "She was quite right. You are going to eat a full meal if I have to shove it down your stubborn throat."

"A most appetizing picture," the detective remarked with a wry smile.

Less than a quarter of an hour later, Mrs. Hudson ascended the stairs bearing a tray of her excellent pork roast. Over the meal, Sherlock Holmes said casually, "By the way, I sent out a few telegrams whilst imprisoned in that charnel-house."

"St. Bart's is a perfectly good hospital, Holmes, as you well know," Watson countered wearily. "I take it that the answers are those telegrams I see upon your desk?"

"Naturally. They have thrown some small amount of light on a very dark matter, as have my brother's observations."

"You have some clue?"

"I have several, but we shall see whether they come to anything. It is most frustrating to sit and wait for data. As soon as I have certain points cleared up I shall investigate the rest, and see if that yields anything of use."

"Holmes, you must – "

"Rest, I know, but I cannot when I have been set on such a scent!" He rose and began to pace impatiently. "Who is this woman? She was here to take one of my old files, but why? And which one? That in itself might answer several points, but it is impossible to ascertain."

Watson was tempted to point out that if Holmes had a better filing system and a thorough index, this would not be a problem, but he refrained. "Holmes, I have heard nothing of your clues yet, only some vague references to your brother's deductions. If you cannot act yet, might you at least tell me something of the progress of the investigation so far?"

"Oh, I can tell you something of the progress," Holmes said bitterly. "It has not progressed at all. I have bits and pieces of clues – Usher's death, a blond hair – but nothing solid, nothing I can follow up. If Wiggins returns with the location of that – " he broke off, biting his fingernails as he stared out the window.

Watson started to speak again, then thought better of it. The lean figure of his friend was as tense as one of his own violin strings, but was apt to make a somewhat less musical sound if disturbed just now.

The front door banged, and Mrs. Hudson gave a cry of dismay. Small feet pounded up the stairs, followed closely by the steps of the outraged landlady. She was informing the intruder in no uncertain terms that he was to wait until she announced him to Mr. Holmes, or face dire consequences. Her imprecations were ignored, and the sitting room door slammed open to reveal a dirty-faced urchin, with a flustered Mrs. Hudson close behind.

"Mr. Holmes, I am very sorry, I'm sure, but this young rascal got ahead of me and – "

"Oh, it's quite all right, Mrs. Hudson," he said with an impatient wave of his hand. "Wiggins, what is it?" Mrs. Hudson raised her eyes to the heavens, and closed the door behind her with dignity.

The young rascal grinned. "I saw 'im, Mr. 'Olmes!"

The detective's lips tightened, and his whole frame seemed to be at eager attention. "Where?"

"Down by the docks. He was talkin' to the sailors."

"Sailors again," Holmes muttered to himself. He glanced up again, and his eyes narrowed. "Just how did you manage to find him, Wiggins?"

"Well, sir, I follered the other 'un." The little ragamuffin sounded quite proud of himself. "The cab driver – you know, the one what 'as the tattoos an' won't take no 'elp with the 'orses an' knocked the beggarman silly an' – "

"Yes, Wiggins, I know." He closed his eyes and began to massage his temples, as if struck by a sudden headache.

"Well, 'e left about noon today, with 'is curtains drawn. An' I know you said to keep clear of 'im, but I couldn't leave it loike that, could I? So I 'opped on the back, rode right along with 'im, and 'opped back off when 'e slowed the 'orses down." Wiggins paused. "Ever'thing all right, guv?"

"Fortuna fortes adjuvat."1 The detective's headache seemed to have grown worse.

"Are you talkin' French again, Mr. 'Olmes?" the urchin asked suspiciously.

"No, Wiggins." Holmes sighed. "You are a very lucky boy."

"Boy?" His tone was so offended that the detective smiled.

"Well, if you are not a boy, what are you? A man of eleven?"

"'Course not. I'm a h'Irregular," Wiggins answered with considerable pride.

Sherlock Holmes stifled a laugh. "Very well, then, Irregular Wiggins, here is your pay." He tossed a sovereign toward him, watched the boy's face light up, and added another. "For risks run in the line of duty," he said rather abruptly in explanation. "Share it with your family."

Watson raised his hand to cover a smile.

"I will, guv!" Wiggins touched a dirty cap and was off.

"But don't do it again, do you hear?" Holmes called after him. "Wiggins! Oh, blast the boy," he muttered insincerely.

The doctor, who had been listening to the strange conversation in puzzlement, finally broke in. "Holmes, what is going on?"

"No time to explain now, Watson." Holmes threw on his coat and hat, scribbled a quick telegram, and snatched up his cane. "I'll tell you all when I get back. That'll be, I don't know, perhaps tomorrow afternoon. Yes, tomorrow. Goodbye! Give Mrs. Watson my best wishes, and my apologies for drawing you away so frequently." He called back the last sentence over his shoulder as he nearly leapt down the stairs. Watson heard the front door open again. "Cabbie!" a strident voice called down the street.

He chuckled to himself, then looked a little saddened. Rather more leisurely than his companion, he also gathered coat and hat and left, not without a soothing word or two for Mrs. Hudson, who was sweeping her kitchen floor with a vehemence that boded ill for her lodger. Mary was waiting, and Anstruther had been taking too many of his patients lately. The doctor's face was thoughtful as he hailed a cab.

_A/N: My Cockney leaves much to be desired, I'm afraid. Also, though the structure of the story forbids it, I am feeling the urge to write in first person. I suppose this is a good sign, but right now it's very annoying – I think my next fic will be first-person Watson narration. I apologize for not clearing up much with this chapter, but I'm a little confused myself at this point… :-) Once and for all, I shall get this blasted plot untangled! _

1 "Fortune favors the brave." Another old Latin saying.


	6. Chapter VI: Revelations

**Chapter VI: Revelations**

_A/N: A fervent thank-you to all who have reviewed, and a very happy New Year! My apologies for the extreme lateness of this update. My only excuse is that this chapter consists mostly of plot explanation, which is not my forte. :-) Also, the characters conspired to surprise me with some additions to their number, and more plot twists!_

Mrs. Watson was possessed of the kindest, most generous spirit in all of London. Perceiving that her husband was not only worried about his friend, but hankering to accompany him on another case, she decided that now was as good a time as ever to pay that overdue visit to Mrs. Forrester, her former employer. Thus it was that the next morning found her on her way to Camberwell, and her husband once again at 221b Baker Street.

Holmes had not come back the night before, but about an hour before noon, just as Watson was beginning to grow anxious, he returned. "Ah, hallo, my dear fellow!" he cried as he strode into the sitting room. "Still absent from your practice? Anstruther is a most obliging neighbor."

"He is indeed. Where the devil have you been?"

"I have been gathering facts, Watson, facts and data and information." He was in high good humor; it seemed that his excursion had not been fruitless. "Well, well, I daresay you will be interested to hear of the developments in the case."

"I am all ears, Holmes."

He smiled, and took his usual seat, leaning back comfortably. "Yes, I thought you might be. In fact, it strikes me that I have been rather remiss in keeping you abreast of what little there was to know, and now I find myself with no clear starting point. Where shall I begin?"

"Well, what of your chemist's death? That seemed to come as something of a – shock," said Watson, choosing his words carefully. It had unsettled Holmes to an unusual degree, though as always he gave little sign of it.

The detective's face darkened. "It did. I need not tell you that suicide is out of the question."

"Surely it is possible that he was struck with repentance for his actions?"

"You forget that I knew the man, Watson, if only in passing. James Usher was not the type to act impulsively, nor to look back when once he had set his hand to the plough. If he had determined to poison me, rest assured he would not soon change his mind."

"Not even when he discovered that you had survived?"

"My dear Watson, you sometimes show a certain inclination to the most implausible explanation possible. The natural action of a man in that situation is to run, not to throw himself into the Thames."

"Holmes, I am merely trying to rule out all other explanations."

"Believe me, my dear fellow, I have already done so. Well, then. Suicide as we have proved is most improbable, and an accident just at this time would be a preposterous coincidence." Holmes paused. "Murder alone is left."

"But Holmes, who would wish to kill him?"

"In all likelihood his employer."

"Employer!"

"When one considers that he had no personal grudge against me, and would in fact lose an excellent client – " Watson's lips tightened, and Holmes hurried on – "it seems clear that another party persuaded him to tamper with the drug. Whether this association was voluntary or not we cannot know, but I suspect blackmail. He seemed to me to be an honest man, and I did note some considerable agitation when last I saw him." He fell silent.

After a few minutes he shook himself out of his contemplation and continued as if nothing had happened. "Well, I could do little while in hospital, so I set Wiggins to watch a man who has something of a reputation for disposing of inconvenient persons. His name is Adrian Burns; I have had my eye on him for some time. Usher's death had all the hallmarks of his work. Wiggins discovered that Burns is supposed to be in Scotland, yet a certain cab driver in his employ is habitually absent from his post at certain times of day.

"Well, as you heard, Wiggins rather unwisely followed the cabbie, and discovered that he was ferrying his employer back and forth from a rather disreputable lodging-house to the docks. Wiggins said he was talking to seamen, which may prove a rather interesting connection with… I say, Watson, I don't believe I mentioned anything to you about my last case, about a week ago?"

"You did not." His voice held a hint of reproof.

"I was unable to solve it due to the deaths of both my client and his murderer. I then had recourse to my… usual remedy, and almost immediately afterwards a file was taken from these rooms. What conclusions do you draw from that?"

"I should say that you were being watched, and most carefully." Watson's brow wrinkled in concern.

"You are correct, but there is more. How could she possibly know that I would take the drug, unless she had not only studied me and my habits, but also _knew_ that I had just lost a case?"

"She, Holmes?" The intrigued note in the doctor's voice reminded Holmes that he had not yet described his unexpected visitor.

"My brother Mycroft was good enough to stop by these rooms for me while I was ill, and he concluded that the intruder was female, blonde, and of a middling weight. She also knew exactly what she was searching for. To continue with the implications of her visit – it is a long shot, but it is just possible that she or an interested party also engineered the case's failure. Not that I believe it takes outside interference to make me lose a case," he added hastily, seeing Watson's look of skepticism, "but it seems too much of a coincidence."

Watson nodded in tentative agreement, and there the conversation stopped for a while. Holmes sank into a contemplative silence, and Watson was just beginning to wonder about luncheon, when a message arrived via a scrawny-looking Irregular.

Sherlock Holmes tore open the folded scrap of paper like a starving wolf would a deer. His eyes scanned it briefly, and he looked up with a delighted chuckle. "New developments, Watson! Wiggins has been watching Burns' quarters since last evening. He dispatched this note not ten minutes after seeing a woman enter the boarding-house – a well-dressed one at that, if I interpret his Cockney aright. On with your coat and hat! We must see if we cannot get there in time to catch sight of her as she leaves."

*************************

"Who do you think she is, Holmes?" They were in a hansom, speeding on their way to a narrow little street in the East End of London. Holmes claimed that it was a perfectly safe neighborhood so long as one did not appear overly wealthy – or mind having an occasional pocket picked – but Watson had his doubts. His revolver was a comfortable weight in his right trouser pocket.

"His mistress, I presume," the detective answered offhandedly. "No doubt he used her to obtain the file, though I must confess I do not know how he persuaded a female to undertake such a risky enterprise. Fortunately that is more your area of expertise than mine, my dear fellow, as I believe I have remarked before."

The doctor opened his mouth to protest, but just then the cab stopped and Holmes leapt out, leaving him to pay the fare. He sighed, tossed a few coins to the cabbie, and rejoined his friend, who was walking briskly along the pavement. They were still a block or so away from their destination, so as to avoid being observed by any interested eyes.

Sherlock Holmes led the way to the boarding-house at a fast pace, but once there took refuge in a rundown little tea-shop opposite. There they waited, sipping a rather suspicious brew and trying to avoid the attentions of the proprietor, who was delighted to have two reputable customers. Through a rather dirty window they could see Burns' temporary lodgings, with a modest little brougham loitering in the street outside.

After about an hour, during which they had refused countless offers of cakes, pastries and assorted other dubious edibles the tea-shop had to offer, a woman emerged from the boarding-house. Holmes, who had been apparently engrossed in a day-old paper, shifted the pages slightly to allow him to watch carefully through the window without catching the attention of the shop's owner, who was still eyeing them hopefully.

She was tall, and dressed in a fashion that was certainly conspicuous in this part of London, though it would have seemed modest enough in the West End. A quantity of chestnut hair was covered but not quite concealed by a small hat. Though somewhat blurred by distance and the murky glass, her features were strong, marked and proud. She was, in other words, what Watson would call "a handsome woman," of about thirty-five. The brougham's driver handed her into the vehicle, and drove off at a good clip.

Turning to his friend to make some remark, Watson discovered that Holmes was no longer even pretending to read the paper. The detective was still staring after the woman's carriage, with the most peculiar look on his face. "Holmes, what is it?"

At first he thought Holmes had not heard, but as he was about to speak again he heard a murmured, "I know I've seen her before…"

Watson sat silently, knowing his friend too well to interrupt. After a few moments Holmes shook himself, and rose to exit the tea-shop. "Come, Watson! Back to Baker Street. I daresay I shall remember her soon enough."

But he did not. They sat smoking in the sitting room in companiable silence for some time, while Holmes' face grew more and more thoughtful. Finally he laid his pipe aside with a sigh. "It's no good, Watson. I shall have to turn my mind to other matters, and trust it to give me that singular woman's identity when I least expect it." With that proclamation he took up his violin and began to indulge in a lengthy bout of composition. It was growing late, and Watson was just beginning to nod where he sat, despite the occasional dissonant chord, when he was startled out of a half-sleep by a triumphant shout.

"It's Murray, Watson! Lady Clotilde Murray!"

_A/N: Yes, I know I wrote chestnut when I said it was blonde hair… but be patient – all shall be revealed. :-)_


	7. Chapter VII: The Stage Is Set

**Chapter VII: The Stage Is Set**

_At long last! I apologize for the unconscionable lateness of this update, which is due partly to my college homework but mostly to my own laziness. I would like to dedicate this chapter to Tristan-the-Dreamer, whose support has been a great help to me. In other words, she was the one who got me to actually sit down and write this chapter when I was clean out of ideas! _

Watson rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "And who might that be, Holmes?"

The detective had leaped up and was pawing through his files. "Clotilde Murray is the name of a woman I encountered some years ago, while investigating – " he broke off with a curse. "1879. Watson, you were just organizing these, where are they?"

"They should be there, Holmes."

Half an hour later, their eyes met across several reams' worth of paper. "Watson, I do believe we've discovered which file was taken."

Holmes set Watson to work looking up Lady Murray in their _Who's Who_, while he delved into his common-place book, where he claimed he _knew_ he had an entry on her.

Wisely, the thief had not wasted time attempting to decipher Holmes' common-place book, and it was untouched. Though it was largely incomprehensible to outsiders, the detective found it very useful in recording his own notes on people as well as any relevant articles on them; cross-references to cases usually followed each entry. Perhaps it was just as well that it was unintelligible. "Aha!" He pounced on a notation and read it with a feral smile. "Found yours yet, Watson? Then let us hear it first."

" 'Lady Clotilde Murray. Born in Prussia, 1854, maiden name Beck. Moved to England 1861, married Sir John C. Murray 1875. Widowed 1879, has not remarried.' No children are mentioned." Watson knew enough to omit her titles and the various other noble trivia that Holmes deemed unimportant. "What have you discovered?"

"That my memory was correct, though the chestnut wig gave me a bit of difficulty. She was connected with the Thunder Tom case early in my career."

Watson's eyes lit up, and he leaned forward with much the same attitude as Holmes when he learned of an intriguing new problem. "I have not heard you speak of it before."

"There was no reason to. I never came to a satisfying conclusion, though I suspected much that I could not prove."

"And what was Lady Murray's involvement?"

"Well, if I am to tell you that, I must first give you a rapid delineation of the case." He took his pipe from the mantel, lit it, and settled in his chair. "I was never actually consulted on it; my involvement was entirely of my own volition, and none of the parties concerned knew of my investigation.

"You see, I knew the murdered man. 'Thunder Tom,' they called him; his real name was Thomas Sutherland. He was a boxer, a cunning fighter if not a particularly imaginative one. I became acquainted with him in the ring, where as you may recall I am still considered a worthy opponent. We were never close friends, but I knew him well enough to smell a rat when he was arrested for the murder of Sir John Murray."

Watson gave a cry of surprise, and Holmes grinned around the stem of his pipe. Occasionally his love of the dramatic resembled what he called Watson's romantic flourishes rather too closely. "But I thought Sutherland was the murdered man!"

"Call him Thunder Tom, my dear fellow. Only his bank and the court called him anything else." The smile faded from his face. "He was murdered, Watson; but that came later. As I said, at the time of the arrest I suspected something was amiss. To my knowledge he had had no previous dealings with Murray, and though the money he was carrying at the time of his death had been found in Tom's lodgings, that seemed too weak a motive. I tried to speak to him, but he merely repeated that he had reserved his defence for the trial. When I pressed him, he refused to say any more, and indeed would not allow me to see him again. The trial date was set for three months later." He took a long draw from his pipe, and blew the smoke out slowly.

The faraway eyes promised a long pause, but Watson's curiosity was piqued. "What happened at the trial?"

"There was no trial, Watson. He was killed not a week after I spoke to him."

"What!"

"In prison, by one of his fellow inmates; Bates, his name was. He claimed it was revenge for an old gambling debt, but I have no doubt that he was hired to silence Tom. The court, however, was not interested in wild theories and considered it an ordinary case of one ruffian turning on another. Bates was later hanged, but even at the gallows gave no other explanation." Holmes' face was expressionless, but there was a tension about the eyes and mouth that spoke of many nights of guilt and anger. Watson said nothing, and they both sat straight and still, gazes not quite meeting. For a few moments neither spoke.

"Well, that was the end of the matter," Holmes said suddenly, "as far as the police and the courts were concerned. But there were too many unexplained facts and half-motives for my mind to be at ease. It was clear to me that Thunder Tom had some strong grounds for killing Murray, not least because he was not naturally a vicious man. He was, however, easily impressionable, and perhaps not as quick mentally as he was in the ring."

"I suppose there is no doubt that he perpetrated the crime?" Watson's voice held little hope.

"None, I fear. An anonymous note brought him to the attention of Scotland Yard, which conducted a search of his lodgings and found not only the money but also his own bloody clothing, shoved under a settee. He never was a very creative thinker." Holmes' voice was cool and analytical, and seeing his calm, thoughtful face Watson could not help but be repulsed at the cold-bloodedness his friend sometimes displayed.

He opened his mouth to say as much, but caught a hint of something else in the hard grey eyes that made him change his comment to, "What made him do it, then? You said before that he had no obvious motive."

"That is precisely what I asked myself at the time. If he had nothing to gain by Murray's death, then another must have urged him to it. This anonymous protagonist then eliminated Thunder Tom as a precaution, though certainly he showed no signs of revealing anything to me. This in turn suggested that the hold on him was not coercion, but something stronger. The balance of probability, then, was that the influence was female.

"Added to this was another factor. Though it is doubtless repellent to your romantic nature, your experience with our little problems has no doubt taught you that the usual culprit when a spouse is murdered is the victim's better half."

"A repellent thought indeed, but I have seen too many unfortunate proofs to doubt it." The doctor's brow was furrowed in distaste.

"Quite so. I had my suspicions at the time, and now I am nearly certain. Lady Clotilde Murray benefited most from her husband's death, and not only monetarily, though his fortune was certainly a large one. There were rumors at the time of considerable infidelity on her part, and there is a limit to even the most forgiving husband's patience."

"If you guessed so much, Holmes, how is it that the matter was not settled then and there?"

"Good heavens, did I not tell you?" exclaimed Holmes. "I must be falling into your habit, Watson, of leaving out some vital point of the tale along the way. Don't be offended, my dear fellow," he added hastily, "you know that I am quite impersonal in such criticism. In any case, the smokescreen Lady Murray threw up was simple but effective.

"She took to her bed, pleading grief and nervous prostration, and I could not interview her. She then developed brain-fever, which I confirmed by speaking with her physician. He had a solid reputation, and I accordingly removed her from my equations.

"But now… I wonder…"

***************************

Watson could not stay at 221B forever. Already Anstruther had discreetly inquired how long he might be expected to minister to two practices' worth of patients, and Mary's visit to her old employer ended in two days. So it was that the next day Holmes found himself saying good-bye once again to his friend, who felt that the detective was now out of danger from any after-effects of the morphine. In fact, Watson had known that for days, but the lure of the new case had been too much for him. The old hound had picked up the scent, and was reluctant to leave it; but needs must, and Holmes could always rely on him to come in answer to a telegram. Or so he told his friend, standing in the doorway leading out to Baker Street.

"I know, Watson," Holmes replied with a wry twist of his mouth. "I know; and I shall take full advantage, never fear!"

Back in a dirty boarding-house in the East End, a pale, handsome man with dark red hair was paying for his lengthy stay. Though his clothes were worn and his hat nearly shapeless, his neatly combed hair and clean-shaven face coupled with his masterful air betrayed a man accustomed to both cleanliness and power. As he hailed a cab outside, he crumpled a telegram in his pocket into a ball. The wrinkled paper read: DOCTOR BACK HOME STOP AM READY STOP WHEN DO WE STRIKE QUERY

"Now, my love," he whispered to the darkness inside the cab. "Now."

_A/N: My apologies for the inaccuracies I'm sure are there. Also for the long scenes of sitting and talking, which must be getting a little old. *shrug* But there's no shortening a backstory, and Holmes insisted on talking away! Also I sincerely hope that boxers went by "stage names," at least some of the time. A line in here also appears in Retired Colourman; a cookie to whoever finds it first! And yes; finally, the reason for the title is revealed. :)_


End file.
